


Surrender by Early Light

by dreamlittleyo



Series: AlexandStar HamilTrek [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Dry Fucking, M/M, Mating Bond, Non-Consensual, Painful Sex, Pon Farr, Rank Disparity, Rough Sex, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: A series of unrelated one-shots based on ToS episodes.This installment:Amok Time. In which Washington's mating drive is a force to be reckoned with, and Hamilton makes an impossible decision.





	Surrender by Early Light

The fight—ritual combat—has already lasted for several agonizing minutes before a better idea occurs to him.

It's amazing really, that Hamilton has managed to keep himself in one piece this long. Not by fighting, but by scurrying about the combat ring, doing his damnedest to stay out of Washington's reach. But hey, Hamilton's always been good at playing to his strengths. For all that his friends accuse him of having a hard-on for peril, he's got fierce survival instincts guiding his every move.

He's already exhausted. Already at a hell of a disadvantage, Human strength no match for his captain's Vulcan physiology. The gravity on Vulcan is stronger than Earth Standard, and the air is stifling, and the hot sand scrapes his palms every time Washington manages to knock him down.

One of these times, Hamilton's going to land too hard to get back up again.

Who ever heard of a marriage ceremony culminating in a fight to the death anyway?

He catches a glimpse of the bridal party in his peripheral vision, clustered around the woman Washington was supposed to marry—the woman who rejected her betrothed and then chose _Alexander_ to fight as her champion. She is lovely and glittering and far too cold for this desert.

Hamilton darts to the side to avoid a sudden lunge, and catches a glimpse of John's panicked expression from the opposite side of the ring. Doesn't give himself any time at all to acknowledge his friend. He's got to keep moving, even though his head is spinning. It's growing more and more difficult to keep his senses grounded.

At least he's not carrying one of those ridiculous bladed weapons anymore. At least Washington isn't either. They've moved on to brawling and fisticuffs now, and _this_ is what's abruptly giving Hamilton a brilliant new idea.

The last time he was down in the sand—the last time Washington nearly managed to pin him—it hadn't felt like his captain wanted to kill him. It was a different sort of strength. Intimate. No less terrifying than the fear of strong hands going for his throat, but _better_. So much better.

God, this is a terrible idea, but it's something Hamilton can _work with_.

His senses swim badly for a moment, and when he steadies out he's on his knees and confused. It's not Washington crouching in front of him, though. It's John Laurens, medical tricorder on the ground beside him, injection at the ready in one hand. Saying Alexander's name as though he's been trying to get his attention for some time. His other hand grips hard at Hamilton's shoulder, keeping him upright.

"John, what the hell?" Hamilton's gaze tracks the perimeter of the combat circle, searching frantically.

There. Washington stands at the far end of the field. His expression is even more distantly dangerous than before. He holds his hands clasped in what should be a meditative pose, but the grip is too tight. There's desperation in that stance, in his posture, in the deep furrow of the normally smooth brow. The mating frenzy's been closing on him for days, madness overtaking him by ruinous degrees.

Looking at him now, Hamilton can't help wondering if his captain is still somewhere behind those eyes, or if the fever has dragged him too far into Hell.

"You can't let him kill you," John says. "I've gotten permission to inject you with a tri-ox compound. It should help your body deal with the gravity and atmosphere better, give you a fighting chance."

"No." Hamilton waves him away when he tries to administer the injection. "I don't need a fighting chance. I've got a better idea."

"A better idea," John echoes, dry and unhappy.

"Okay, it's a really stupid idea. But I think it'll work, and we'll both survive. I need to know you won't interfere no matter how bad it looks."

"For fuck's sake, Alexander—"

"I'm serious," Hamilton interrupts the exasperated protest. "I want you to promise me. I know what I'm talking about. You want us both to survive this thing, you let me handle it my way."

John considers him silently for several uneasy seconds. Hamilton isn't entirely certain he'll get the promise he wants. John's a loyal officer, but he'll never choose his captain over his best friend, and certainly not under circumstances like this.

But if Hamilton plays his cards right, John won't have to make that call. Everything will be screwed six ways from Sunday—the damage to his relationship with Washington may be irreparable—but at least he and his captain will both finish the day breathing.

" _Promise me_ ," Hamilton presses when the silence lasts too long.

" _Fine_ ," John hisses. "I promise. But if you die, I'm finding a way to track you into the afterlife and give you a piece of my fucking mind."

Hamilton cracks a weak smile. "Guess I'd better not die then."

John glares, but rises from the sand and holds out a hand to help Hamilton to his feet. Then he's gone, and time distorts, speeds forward—Hamilton's addled senses make it difficult to track what's happening around him—and Washington stands before him once more. Not tall and straight-backed and stern like Hamilton is used to seeing him, but half-crouched in a fighting stance. Aggressive. Ready to attack.

When Washington rushes him, Hamilton makes no effort to evade.

There's a moment's confusion—his captain aware enough to realize it shouldn't be this easy—as his weight settles unyielding and inferno-hot, pinning Alexander to the ground. There will be no wriggling free this time. No chance of evading strong hands if they close around his throat. No changing his mind and backing out now.

Hamilton has no intention of changing his mind. 

Before Washington can react to the unexpected turn of events, Hamilton moves. He twines both arms around Washington's waist and eases his legs apart—pulse hurrying as Washington's bulk slips into the space between—easy and natural and far too perfect. _This_ is the moment of certainty, confirmation that he has not read this situation wrong: there's an unmistakable hardness nudging between his thighs. The hot, stiff line of Washington's cock, all but grinding against him.

Hamilton arches beneath the overwhelming weight holding him down. Rolls his hips deliberately, offering friction Washington is not even consciously seeking.

The movement makes Washington go perfectly still on top of him, and Hamilton holds his breath. He peers up into his captain's face, trying to look nonthreatening. Submissive. Trying to make himself look like a prize to be mounted rather than a foe to be crushed.

" _Sir_." His voice sounds wrong to his own ears. Rough and breathless. He can't get enough air into his lungs, and his chest hurts from hopeless exertion.

Washington remains motionless, though it's impossible to tell if he realizes Hamilton is speaking to him.

"Sir, we don't have to fight." Hamilton sounds steadier this time. He hopes his tone is calming. He braces himself, inhales shakily, and asks, "Wouldn't you rather fuck me?"

And oh, the words _must_ get through, because Hamilton has barely finished the question before Washington surges against him. Grabbing for him, one hand hard at his flank, one hand twisting painfully in his hair. The hand in his hair _yanks_ , a sharp jerk that forces Hamilton's head back, baring his throat.

Hamilton breathes a startled gasp, but Washington's mouth is already on him. Closing over his frantically beating pulse point, teeth digging into his skin. There's suction, the surreal sensation of being marked. Deliberately. And Hamilton's head spins as he realizes his plan _worked_. This is happening; Washington is going to take him. Claim him in place of the bride who still stands at the edge of the ritual circle, watching with cool eyes.

Fuck, Washington is going to take him _right here_. A fact Hamilton considered, yes: there's a reason he warned John not to interfere. But Washington is going to fuck him in front of half a dozen onlookers. In front of John Laurens and T'Pau and an entire Vulcan wedding entourage.

It's not enough to make Hamilton regret his decision, but he has to choke down new panic at the knowledge. At the hit his pride is about to take. At the fact that, deliberate offer or not, all these people are going to see Washington hurt him and there's nothing Hamilton can do.

He prays John will not interfere.

His head spins a moment later when Washington's mouth releases his throat, and then there are strong hands taking hold of him, manhandling him. Washington's weight vanishes so that instead of pinning Hamilton on his back in the sand, he can shove Hamilton onto his stomach. Alexander scrambles, gets his knees under him—he's trying to cooperate damn it, trying to make this easier—and then the hands at his hips slide lower, bruising strength and violent purpose.

At least Washington drags his uniform down his thighs in one piece rather than tearing the fabric apart. Considering Vulcan strength and feverish madness, Hamilton wouldn't have doubted a more violent show. Instead there's the slide of clothing, the sensation of hampered movement as fabric bunches around his thighs, and Hamilton is panting now. Fighting back a fresh swell of panic as Washington's hand slides along skin, palming his bare ass. A quick, possessive touch—there and then gone as Washington's weight crushes forward on top of him.

" _Fuck_ ," Hamilton breathes. He's not sure when Washington took the time to manage his own uniform, but there's the intimate nudge of his captain's naked cock. He buries his face against his arms and presses his legs together, feels that rigid length stutter forward between his thighs. Slicker than he expects. And fuck, it's a long shot, but maybe this could be enough. He keeps his thighs pressed tight, rolls his hips back, lets his captain's cock slide forward. A pantomime of fucking.

Washington groans, ducks his head to catch the side of Hamilton's throat with his teeth.

They move together like that for minutes that feel like an eternity, Washington rutting mindlessly against him, precome making the space between Hamilton's thighs slick and uncomfortable. Washington pants raggedly against his throat, sometimes biting him, sometimes just burying his moans in the sweaty line of Hamilton's neck.

Hamilton's heart is a racket, a wild rhythm in his blood, a deafening clatter in his ears. There's no hint of arousal for him to cling to. No desire of his own to be used this way, no grudging pleasure he can ride. But that doesn't matter. His pleasure is not the point. So what if he's not hard; he is also not afraid. For the first time since this goddamn fight began, he is _hopeful_.

He will survive. Washington will not have to live with the knowledge of having killed him—a fate Hamilton would go to far greater lengths than this to spare his captain.

Washington will still have to live with this. Hamilton doesn't know how much his captain will remember. But even if he remembers nothing, John Laurens is not the type to omit details from his official report. Washington will know what happened.

But Hamilton will be there. He can find a way to fix this. He just needs to be alive to do it.

"Come on," he hisses, rocking beneath the weight bearing down along his back. "Come on, _finish it_." God, he prays he's right, that it won't matter he isn't Washington's intended. That the drive to mate or kill will be satisfied with claiming Hamilton this way. That it will end this farce of a ceremony and free Washington from the fever consuming him.

Hamilton's heart nearly stops when Washington stills on top of him without any sign of orgasm. When Washington eases back, uncertainty rears up in Alexander's head. He gasps at a chilly wave of fear that he's misread the situation, that this isn't what Washington needs after all.

His doubt lasts only an instant.

There's a blunt nudge in the very next moment, the head of Washington's cock—it has to be his cock, it's far too large to be his fingers—pressing at Hamilton's entrance.

It hurts. _Fuck_ , it hurts, as that unyielding girth forces its way inside him. Slick as Washington's cock is from their activities so far, Hamilton is not ready. His body is too tight, his senses already overwhelmed. He exhales hard and struggles to relax—to loosen up and _take it_ —and wishes the breath didn't sound so much like a scream.

Washington does not give him time to adjust. Every second he shoves his cock deeper, filling Hamilton by painful increments. Gasping now, panting helplessly against Hamilton's skin. Those enormous hands hold Hamilton still with bruising power, gripping his hips too tightly for any chance of escape. Hamilton does not want to escape, but he can _feel_ his body's instinctive urge to twist away, and it's only his captain's strength keeping him where he needs to be.

They share several seconds of perfect stillness when Washington at last slots all the way inside him. Washington's weight is nearly crushing, Washington's thighs an inferno of heat behind him, Washington's teeth sharp at his throat. Hamilton chokes, a shattered sob shaking from his chest. It's too much. It is _agony_. He feels like he's splitting apart on his captain's cock, and Washington's groan of pleasure shivers along his skin in answer.

Hamilton does not beg his captain to stop. He does not _want_ his captain to stop. Agony or not, he's going to see this through, and he draws a shaky breath past the pain.

There is nothing seductive in the way he snarls, " _Fuck me_ , sir," into the silence. Only violence and demand and a desperation to get this over with. "What the hell are you waiting for?"

Whether it's the words themselves that get through or just impatience giving way, Washington snaps to immediate motion. Rolls his hips back, jerks his cock inside Hamilton's body, withdraws only to fuck forward again. _Hard_. Not a smooth reentry, but a forceful one, shoving deep and making Hamilton cry out.

There are already tears soaking the sleeve where Hamilton has buried his face, and sand scrapes his chin as his captain establishes a punishing rhythm. Disorientation overtakes him for several seconds, vertigo and a sweep of nausea, a throbbing at his temple as his body reacts to the additional strain. The gravitational and atmospheric pressures would not be enough to best him, but between the pounding he's already taken in combat and the rough use Washington is making of his body… 

Fuck, his senses are swimming harder now. He has to focus, has to put every fading resource he has toward staying conscious as Washington fucks him.

" _Sir_ ," he sobs when one of Washington's arms circles his waist. It's a mockery of an embrace—nothing but a search for better leverage as Washington's thrusts grow faster, more vicious with every passing second. Those movements feel smoother now. There's hot slickness between Hamilton's thighs, and he knows it isn't come. He might not know the nuances of Vulcan biology, but he's damn sure Washington wouldn't still be fucking him so vigorously if he had already spent. Which means this is something else. It means Hamilton is bleeding. And maybe the atmosphere isn't the only reason he's lightheaded.

His legs give out beneath him long before Washington is finished, and he crumples to the ground. His captain manages to follow without pulling out, shoves his legs apart to settle between them, keeps right on thrusting as though Hamilton's fall has not even broken his concentration. The angle is more awkward this way. Hamilton's legs can't spread far enough to ease the pressure of Washington's weight on top of him, not with his trousers still bunched at mid-thigh, not with Washington's bulk occupying the same space, not with Washington's cock still filling him relentlessly.

Hamilton grunts at an especially deep thrust. He breathes a low moan when one of Washington's hands reaches up and closes around his wrist before sliding higher. Covering his hand. Threading their fingers together in a clumsy tangle.

Hard as Hamilton is struggling to remain conscious at all, it takes him several seconds to recognize a new sensation twining along the edges of his mind. Something less tangible—less painful than the violation currently being wreaked on his weak and fading body—an almost reassuring caress of warmth teasing its way between his thoughts. He doesn't have the words for this. Isn't sure it's even _real_ , or if this is just some fucked up way his brain is coping with the trauma of being mounted dry in the middle of a goddamn desert.

Hamilton doesn't care if it's real. He focuses on that feeling, on the curl of something like pleasure beneath his skin. Squeezes tight where his fingers are interlocked with Washington's, holding on the only way he can.

When Washington's cock begins pounding into him even harder—an uneven rhythm now as the end closes in—it's finally too much. Hamilton's vision sparks at the edges, his chest hurts, and the world is spinning around him. Too fast to stop.

When unconsciousness at last pulls him under, Washington is still fucking him. But Alexander has no more fight left.

\- — - — - — - — -

He wakes with the distinct sense that he should be in a great deal of pain.

It takes him several seconds to remember _why_. And several moments longer to ward off the oh-fuck-what-have-I-done whirlwind of panic that rises immediately inside him. When he sits up, his body does not protest. And no wonder: he's in sickbay. A private room with a narrow bed, though none of the monitors are running. John must not be worried about him, if he left the readouts deactivated and simply let Alexander sleep.

He's wearing medical scrubs instead of his uniform, and there's no sign of his communicator. He'll have to use the wall panel to report in.

Before he manages to do more than kick his legs over the side of the high bed, the door slides open and John struts through. He looks distinctly unhappy, but calm. Stiffly professional in a clean uniform with no hint of Vulcan's red sand staining the fabric.

"How do you feel?" John asks once the door has slides shut. There's an extra undercurrent of concern beneath the question. John clearly does not mean physically—at least not _only_ physically—and that makes this a difficult question to answer.

"Good as new." Hamilton sticks to the superficial because it's easier. "Thanks for patching me up." He doesn't manage a light tone as he says it, but he sounds normal enough. Steady. A complicated maelstrom of emotions churns inside him, but he can't bring himself to regret what he's done.

"Alexander…" John's stare holds him, and it's obvious he wants to push.

"Where's Washington?" Alexander demands before he can try. "I need to see him."

John shakes his hand. "He won't agree to that. Not yet. I told him you would ask, and he flat-out refused to be in the same room as you."

Hamilton's chest gives a twinge so painful he can't breathe for a moment.

When he recovers he asks, "Because of what I did to him?"

John's expression clouds. "Because of what _he_ did to _you_."

Oh.

Hamilton draws a measured breath and struggles for calm. He doesn't try to argue. There's no point, and even if there were, John is not the one he needs to convince. Washington is a good man. Of course he feels guilty, no matter how far beyond control his own actions. Of course he blames himself and not Hamilton. Unexpected warmth floods Hamilton's chest at the thought of his captain. The need to see him—to touch and reassure himself Washington is alive—is nearly overwhelming.

And alongside that need, a pulse of something else. A different sort of awareness.

"But he's close," Hamilton says, unjustifiably certain. "He's here in sickbay."

John's cloudy expression turns guarded. "Yes."

That he doesn't ask how Hamilton knows is… suspicious. Or at the very least strange. Just as much of a red flag as the way John is looking at him, all narrowed eyes and poker face.

Alexander's own eyes narrow in answer. "How did you know I was awake? The bio-scanners aren't active, you weren't monitoring my vitals."

To his credit, John barely hesitates before answering, "The captain told me."

"How the fuck did he know?"

"Vulcans are telepaths."

" _Touch_ telepaths. He can't even see me." Except there's a nagging, confused tug of comprehension teasing the edges of Hamilton's mind. A blurry answer that connects the dots between Washington's knowledge and his own certainty that his captain is close.

John deflates a little, expression softening, blankness fading to something tired and a little bit helpless. "I'm not really the one who should be answering these questions."

"Yeah?" Hamilton bites back, more testily than he means to. "Well since Washington's hiding and you're the only one here, looks like it's your job anyway."

A beat of silence. A long, quiet sigh. And finally John says with uncomfortable bluntness, "You're his mate, Alexander. _That's_ what happened on the planet. Washington didn't just need a body to fuck, he needed a mind to bond with. You gave him both. As far as I can tell, the effects are permanent."

"Oh shit." Hamilton stares, but the enormity of that statement refuses to sink in.

"Yeah," John agrees softly.

"That's… Fuck, what am I supposed to do?"

"Hell if I know." John gives a shrug. "This is all… There's no precedent for it. No fleet protocol, no medical directive. T'Pau contacted the ship after I had you stabilized, to _congratulate you both on your nuptials_. I've got Washington on one side trying to figure out how to court martial himself, and ancient Vulcan tradition on the other acknowledging this mess as a _valid marriage_."

Hamilton's brain latches onto the most urgent part of what John has just said. "You can't let him initiate a court martial investigation. This wasn't his fault."

"Yeah. I'm working on it. He's isolated right now. There's nothing he can do until I release him from observation."

Hamilton swallows hard. He needs to talk to Washington. Urgency burns beneath his skin, making it difficult to focus on anything else. He needs to show his captain that he's _okay_.

He needs to ask forgiveness, even though he is not sorry.

He needs to figure out what _Washington_ needs. The man cannot want to be mated to him— _married_ to him—but if John is right… If the bond between them is indelible…

Then where the fuck do they go from here?

Hamilton's stomach clenches, but he forces himself to speak. "Fine. So the captain won't come to me. Will you let me go to him?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"John." Hamilton stares his best friend down, putting every ounce of determination and stubbornness into his voice. "Please."

Several seconds stretch wordless between them, but at last John's shoulders sag and he turns for the door. "Fine. Follow me."


End file.
